


Tell It Like It Is

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, AU future fic.  Sam is a professor, Dean's freaking out, and maybe the Winchesters can have a happy ending after all.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell It Like It Is

"Dean, no." Sam doesn't even look up as he says it, and there's finality in his tone.

"But—"

"Don't even think about it."

Dean huffs in frustration, but this isn't really the place to make a stink. They're in the coffee shop just off campus, and who knows how many of the kids milling around—god, half of them can't even be _twenty_ —are Sam's students. It wouldn't do for the Professor of Anthropology and Folklore to start ranting like a crazy person in public, even though Dean knows he could easily make Sam rise to the bait.

He slumps down across the little table instead, a dinky, wobbly thing that's barely big enough to accommodate Sam's laptop and Dean's elbows at the same time.

"Sam," he says, keeping his voice soft and deliberately reasonable. "People are dying."

"People are _always_ dying. Pass it on to Jo, her team can take care of it."

"Yeah, but this one's right up our alley. We could handle it over the weekend, be back by Monday."

"I have a hundred and twenty essays to grade this weekend," says Sam, like Dean doesn't _know_ that.

"Yeah," Dean concedes. "But it's not like it's that _big_ a hunt. I could just—"

" _No_ ," says Sam, and the gritty strength in his refusal renders Dean silent. When he looks up from his coffee, Sam's eyes are on him, bright and a little bit hurt.

"Aw hell, don't look at me like that," Dean grumbles. He shifts, uncomfortable under Sam's gaze.

"I thought we had a deal," says Sam. "No hunting without me. You _promised_."

Silence settles between them, echoed by something like betrayal in the set of Sam's shoulders, and this is suddenly goddamn awkward. It might not make Dean's top ten list—like the first time Sam tried to kiss him, or the day three years after that when Bobby almost found out what was going on between them—but still. Awkward. And Dean desperately wants his brother to stop looking at him that way.

He's ready to bolt, foot twitching with the onset of nervous energy, but before he can scoot his chair back Sam's hand settles on his knee. The touch of his brother's palm is warm and familiar, the weight of love—and want—through denim, and Dean freezes in his retreat.

"Dean, what is this really about?" Sam asks, and Dean reminds himself _not_ to get distracted by the soft back-and-forth of Sam's thumb on his kneecap.

"Nothing," Dean says, except he knows that can't be true. This arrangement they share carries them well. No hunting, except together, and only during the summer session when their new lives allow for it. Everything else gets passed along, plenty of other hunters to handle things, and besides, Dean's word is his fucking _bond_.

Which means he knows better, and maybe something really _is_ wrong if he thought even briefly about going off on a hunt without Sam.

"Dean," says Sam, leaning forward with the kind of intensity usually reserved for ancient texts—or Dean himself when he's either injured or naked. "Hey, _talk_ to me, dude."

And Dean is pretty sure he would, except he's got no idea what to say. Panic sets into his gut, leaves his heart rate unable to settle, and he finally shoves his chair back and stands, completing his aborted escape.

He tries to leave casually—no reason to clue the entire coffee shop contingent in to the fact that he's a mess. It's a small enough town that the rumor mills would run on him pretty much instantly, and the last thing he wants is the whole town muttering behind his back about domestic unrest. With every step he ignores the insistent question of Sam's eyes watching him go.

 

— - — - — - —

Sam briefly considers slamming his laptop closed and following Dean out the door. It would be easy enough to pick up with his correcting later, and it's been a hell of a long time since Dean took off without explanation.

Instinct urges him to stand and follow, but in the end he stays where he is. If Dean is freaking out, better to let him work it through for himself. Sam can only slow the process down.

That understanding doesn't make it any easier to pour himself back into his students' papers, but Sam does his best.

The entire afternoon goes by without Dean seeking him out, still no sign of him when Sam has to leave for his evening class. By then there's little choice but to accept that Dean doesn't want to talk to him.

Sam shows up five minutes late to lecture and dismisses everyone forty-five minutes early. It's not the first time he's cut class short, but it's definitely the first time he's done it simply because he can't focus. The empty lecture hall is monstrously quiet as he sits, brooding and pensive. Trying and failing to work it out for himself, and praying like crazy that Dean is doing a better job of it.

The sun is setting, a dimming glow through the tall narrow windows of the North wall, when Sam finally starts packing up to leave. He startles at an unexpected touch on his shoulder, jumping about a foot in the air because _no one_ sneaks up on Sam Winchester.

Of course it's Dean.

"Hey. Sorry."

"Forget it," says Sam, clasping his bag shut. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," says Dean, and Sam almost believes him. If Dean is back it means his brother is ready to smooth right over whatever set him off and pretend it completely away. Much as Sam would love to let him, he knows he can't; he needs to know. It can't just be this particular hunt. They've turned down plenty in the past few years, passed them on to other people, and Dean's never batted an eyelash. Never done anything more than put on a show of whining that Sam is trying to domesticate him.

Sam leans back to sit on the long, flat stretch of desk that dominates the front of the lecture hall. He crosses his arms, thinking hard, and watches Dean intently as his brother fidgets under his gaze.

"Truth or dare?" Sam finally asks. It's an old game, and a secret one—born the night they first found themselves falling closer than brothers were ever meant to. It's a tradition they've held sacred for years now, only to be used when drunk or in dire circumstances, and Sam sees Dean's jaw twitch at the implications of the question.

But Dean doesn't bolt again. He approaches deliberately, cautiously, and perches on the edge of the desk beside Sam as he says, "Truth."

"You really freaking out about this hunt, or is it me?"

Dean's profile is somber as he swallows, his face a shutdown mask kept carefully unreadable, and he shifts as if to stand. Says, "Need booze for this game."

"Dean," Sam says, soft but firm, and he reaches out to wrap his fingers around Dean's elbow. "You know the rules, man. You called truth, you have to answer the question. Just tell me what's bothering you."

He can still see retreat threatening in the lines of Dean's body, in the stiff way his brother is holding himself against the desk. Dean looks away and stares across the room, stubbornly refusing eye contact, and it's easily recognizable as a sure sign he's about to start talking.

"You know it's sort of our anniversary?" Dean asks quietly. "I mean, if you can call it an anniversary."

Sam has to smile at the reminder, even in the face of whatever it is Dean's over the edge about, because of course he remembers. "Yeah," he says. "I think we can call it that." He's still got the scar on his shoulder from when he fell off the bed and into the sharp corner of the nightstand. "Please tell me you're not freaking out because I forgot our anniversary."

"No," Dean breathes. "God no."

"Then what?"

"I just… it's been ten _years_ , man." Dean rubs a hand through his hair, grown out longer than usual in the last couple months, and there's tension in the gesture. Nerves and self-consciousness, and Sam holds himself silent. Dean breathes deep, out and in, and in a voice gone painfully quiet finally says, "What the fuck are you still doing with me?"

Sam blinks stupidly, and for a moment hasn't got the slightest clue how to respond. Leave it to Dean to drag Sam along into his midlife crisis.

"You're kidding, right?" he asks at last, and Dean is still steadfastly not meeting his eyes. "Look at me," Sam says.

"Didn't say 'dare'," Dean hedges, and it could almost be funny.

" _Dean_." Sam puts all the force of command into it, a cheap tactic but it works. Dean finally follows the order, their gazes locking hard, and Sam can see something too close to fear in his brother's eyes.

"Why would you ask me something like that?"

Dean tries to shrug it off, but Sam tightens his fingers on his brother's arm in warning.

"Don't you ever want something else?" Dean asks. ' _Something better_ ,' his tone implies, and it breaks Sam's heart in half.

"Never," he says, trying to render the certainty strong and unmistakable so Dean can't possibly miss it in his tone. "How do I convince you that I'm exactly where I want to be?"

"What about a family?" Dean asks in a tiny, uncertain voice.

"I _have_ a family."

"But… but you could have a wife. _Kids_. And instead you're stuck with me."

"Enough," Sam growls, and he's on his feet before either of them can blink. He crowds Dean against the desk, planting his hands on the hanging edge at either side of Dean's hips and forcing a space for himself between Dean's knees. "I'm not 'stuck' with anything, Dean. I'm not sitting in my office pining after a different life. Why is it so impossible for you to believe I'm happy?"

Dean's breathing has gone shallow and fast, his eyes wide, and Sam stares as his brother licks lips gone dry.

"Too good to be true?" Dean hedges.

Something horrible occurs to Sam suddenly, a tight fear that grabs him like a fist around his heart. "Dean," he whispers. "Are you trying to say _you_ want out?"

A beat passes where Sam is sure the answer will be yes, and it's terror like he hasn't known in years. It's paralyzing and impossible, the idea of living this life or any other without Dean at his side—Dean in his _bed_. He can't breathe until he realizes Dean is shaking his head side-to-side in a vigorous denial.

"Christ, Sam, of _course_ not." Dean's hands reach for his face, warm and reassuring and drawing Sam closer.

"Good," Sam breathes, darting in for a kiss. "Fuck, Dean, you scared me."

He needs to do more. He needs to reassure Dean somehow, keep his head in the game long enough to make it clear just how badly he needs his brother, but Sam's not sure he's got any ability to focus right now. He's too busy shoving Dean back onto the desk and kissing him, deep and hard and hungry, and Dean is a heady distraction, groaning invitingly beneath him. Shifting and grasping and welcoming Sam's weight, and Sam is all but lost to the familiar urge to wrap himself up in Dean and never let go.

He forces himself to back off, because they can't do this here. Their relationship may not be a secret from the rest of the faculty—okay, the part where they're brothers sure, but not the rest—but there's discretion, and then there's fucking Dean on the desk of an open lecture hall. Option two isn't really compatible with academic decorum, so Sam takes a reluctant step back, breathing heavily as he watches Dean collect himself enough to sit up.

"We good?" Sam asks. What he really means is ' _Do you believe me yet?_ ' He sees from the flash in Dean's eyes that his brother reads the question just fine.

"I don't know," says Dean, but there's a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I could use a little more convincing."

Sam snorts, feels his own smile starting to spread as he says, " _Convincing_."

"It's code, Sammy."

"I figured."

"And you know what 'convincing' means, right?"

"I think I've got an idea."

"It means your cock, Sammy."

" _Jesus_ , Dean," Sam groans, and he scrubs a hand roughly across his face. "Yeah. Okay. Do you want to take this home and finish it, or would you rather torture me for awhile longer?"

The glint in Dean's eyes says both options sound pretty appealing, but it also says they really _are_ okay. That maybe Dean finally gets that they're in this together. He takes pity on Sam finally, standing and tugging his shirt down.

"Let's go," Dean smirks and moves for the exit.

Sam stops him just a step from the hall with an authoritative hand against the doorjamb, his arm blocking Dean's path and his mouth nearly brushing Dean's ear as he says, "It's you and me, Dean. Forever. You with me or what?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes, turning to drag Sam down into an off-balance, unexpected hug. "Always."


End file.
